


Lone Wolves

by Asiera



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Resident Evil 4 Aftermath, Romance, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asiera/pseuds/Asiera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a lot to kill some people. Two such examples are Albert Wesker and Jack Krauser. Both have repeatedly escaped death's cold clutches when most would have perished. But sometimes even the strongest reach their limits. Lying face down on a deserted roof top in a pool of his own blood, body riddled with the aftermath of two deadly pathogens and a barrage of bullets, Krauser might have finally met his reaper, something neither he nor Wesker are willing to accept. The will to survive isn't the only thing keeping Jack moving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes Corpses Get Up

**Lone Wolves: 01**

**Some Corpses Get Up**

**Chapter by Mehrune**

Crows with eyes like the dark, greed filled pits circled over the rooftops of the corpse littered island. One in particular had caught their interest. It was abandoned in a pool of blood, bullet casings littering the area. Smoke billowed up from the island making visibility dim at best. The stench of blood, rotting flesh, and gun powder clung to the air, a reminder of the gruesome battle that had taken place a mere hour ago. The fight to the death had been without equal. In the end the victor, the sleek Asian woman in red had walked away smiling, but not without scars of her own, a permanent reminder of the event. The defeated now lay lifeless on a the roof of a metal building, his body riddled with more bullet holes than were feasibly countable.

It was the reek of the dead that had drawn the crows here in flocks. One after the other they perched on the surrounding metal beams that had made up the pair's arena. Feathers glistening in the dim light they waited. Watching and observing, making sure that no one would return for the discarded, once human male. As if some unseen signal had been given, in unspoken unison the crows took to the sky and descended upon the man that would become their meal.

Upon landing their sharp beaks began ripping into the pale, already torn flesh beneath their sharp, blood caked talons. The corvids didn't care about what the combination of the virus and the deadly parasite had twisted their prey into. The risk of infection and similarly debilitating mutation meant nothing to them. For a good five minutes the hungry birds feasted, cleaving strips of skin from the stiff body. The man beneath them formally bearing the name of Jack Krauser, a title that served no purpose in death, was completely covered by the ravenous birds.

The nature of these creatures was to pick apart the mortal until there was nothing left. Many of the corpses littering the island had already met a similar fate. Yet, unlike the others that had been reduced to bloody skeletons, this meal would be different. This time the meal would be incomplete.

The crows suddenly spooked when their pray, a man that in all rights had been dead—a still heart, no electric activity between the neural synapses in his brain, no breath in his lungs, blood stagnate in his ripped veins—began to twitch and move. They took to the skies with shrieks of anger and surprise, blood droplets falling from their beaks, wings, and talons as they rose higher and higher leaving the man once more, but this time, not for dead. By some horror, or perhaps miracle—depending on how you viewed such things—the twisted mess of biological warfare residing in his tainted veins had restored some semblance of life to the corpse on which the ravens and crows had been dining.

Confused, and not yet sated, the birds only moved far enough to remain safe, staying close enough to return to feasting should the man fall back into death's clutches once again, greedy hunger burning in their black eyes.

Jack's entire body felt like it was on fire. Every inch of his twisted being ached. The empty blackness that had completely engulfed his mind for God only knew how long was slowly giving way to fog that allowed Jack to begin to think once again, but only of the pain. His back felt as though a blunt nail imbedded club had been pounding it into unrecognizable, pulverized flesh. He could feel the fresh blood that was once again being pumped out of him in small rivers by his now beating, tired, aching heart flowing from the open gashes that he knew extended down into his muscles, some deeper still. His back was only the beginning of the horrors that had become his body.

His face that was still pressed against the metal was also covered with blood, trickling down the marred flesh that made his previous scars look like mere superficial scratches. He was choking on his own blood, a process that made the already agonizing filling and refilling of his previously still lungs even more excruciating. He wasn't even sure where the blood was coming from: The mess that had once been his face which felt as though someone had stuffed it onto a meat grinder, or something internal. Probably both if he had the strength to think about anything besides how much he _hurt_.

Slowly, mostly off of instinct he blinked his eyes open, the process taking a few moments since they had been previously glued shut by dried blood and now he had to blink away the fresh crimson curtain trickling into them. Once he had them open, even the light hurt, searing into retinas that had thought they were done dealing with such things as vision. It was a miracle that he could still use both his eyes. A miracle that at the time meant nothing to Krauser.

It was awful. Hellish even. Perhaps he was in hell, he certainly couldn't see himself flying upstairs with many of the happy souls he'd already sent there. But nothing, nothing at all, not the ribbons of muscle and sinew his back had been reduced to, nor the burning agony of his mutilated face, not even the tightly packed clusters of bullet holes bored into his chest could compare to the blinding agony that comprised from his left arm.

It felt as though a chainsaw had ripped through the skin from the inside, splitting his extremity straight down the middle. Or perhaps it was better described as an alien, a parasite that had burrowed its way beneath his skin, integrated with his musculature and wrapped sinisterly around his bone before deciding to excruciatingly expand, ripping through his body until it was exposed to the world as the grotesque creature that it was. Then it had the audacity to pulsate and wriggle, each unintentional movement sending electric jolts of excruciation through his body. Even now he could feel the invading tendrils working their slow unhaltable way under his skin, pushing and prodding the invasion past his shoulder, over his chest, up his neck, and across his back. It wasn't fast. Nigh unnoticeable actually, except for the burning ache they left in their wake. An ache stronger and deeper than anything Jack had felt before and one that brought with it an overwhelming sense of fear that came with being completely consumed, eaten alive by the power he was currently unaware he had willingly injected into his body.

Jack was no stranger to pain he had served in the military special forces for years and his work as a mercenary placed him on a first name basis with every sort of discomfort imaginable. But the sensations that were ripping through his arm were worse than anything he had ever felt before. It was worse than the spine that had been thrust through his left arm by the enormous mutant B.O.W. he had faced in South America. Worse than the helicopter crash that had carved up his face. Worse than all of the times before. Nothing in his entire career could have prepared him for this.

He couldn't bring himself to look at it, he couldn't bring himself to move a single muscle. All he could do was lay there in agony, unaware if he was screaming, crying, a combination of the two, or nothing at all. For Jack an eternity passed by in mere minutes. Vaguely the realization that he was going to die, that he should have been dead crept into his clouded mind. Followed by the thought that if he did nothing he would die.

His mind returning from whatever crippling agony ridden oblivion it had fallen into begged him to do something, to survive. But how could he? What good was he against the tide of death slowly pulling him down back into the blackness he'd just emerged from? He couldn't even move. It was as if some invisible hand was forcefully holding him into place, pushing him into the wet steel beneath him. That hand was fear. He was terrified to move; terrified of the searing agony that would overwhelm him. Jack was vaguely aware of his body heaving against the cool surface under him, his lungs feeling like they couldn't take in enough oxygen no matter how hard he tried and screaming in protest at the effort. Panic forced its way through the fog urging Jack to do something.

In the end the urge to survive won out. It always did. That's why he was still breathing after all. No matter what happened to him, Jack somehow always survived. It's who he was.

Jack slowly forced his gray, blood shot eyes that had somehow drifted shut again to open and then to do something they hadn't last time: To see, to somehow make the painful light and various shapes around him make sense through the pain racking through his entire frame. The world was swimming, he couldn't focus his vision, but he knew that he was definitely flush against the ground that felt as though it was soaked in some mixture of viscous liquids.

Jack tried to make both of his arms move so he could get up, but he couldn't manage anything with the left arm that was no longer really his but an entity all its own. The pain that shot through him was excruciating every time he tried. Giving up on using that _thing_ he used every ounce of strength left in his desolated body to push himself up using only his right arm. Through shear determination Krauser managed to lift himself a few inches off the ground, just enough to allow air to properly fill his deprived lungs.

Krauser's vision swam further complicating things as he tried frantically to make sense of something. Through the blood veil that stained his face and his eyes he was finally able to see that the liquid on the ground was blood. Judging by how he felt Jack came to the conclusion that it was his blood. _Well that figures..._ He was unsure how he could still be alive, while his blood covered the ground. It was as if the metal itself was rusting a deep crimsonstream. No one should have been able to survive that, yet here he was still breathing.

Taking in several gasps of air he did his best to calm his shaking breathing. Flashes of prior events spasmed through his mind. An image of a woman in a red dress, a knife fight, the president's daughter, and his arm....God his arm. None of it made any sense, there was no order to the images. They just pounded their way into his head. The entire situation made Jack want to scream, to yell bloody murder to the entire world.

It was a scream that Jack could not contain. The sound itself was inhuman, like a wounded animal's cry, defiant before death's door. Krauser himself couldn't even recognize the cry as his own. It didn't help that it was the first sound his ringing ears had picked up on, the first thing he truly heard besides the intense sporadic pounding of his own wounded heart.

The sound itself sent the crows that had perched in wait on one of the many rooftops nearby to take to the skies once more. Emitting enraged squawks as they circled, spiraling upwards and vacating the area and their unfinished meal.

Jack's head slumped forward, his forehead hitting the ground once more. An act that did nothing for the horrendous pounding in his head. Gasping he began to pull himself from the pool of blood with his right arm, towards the edge of one of the sloping rooftops. Sharp gasps of pain mingled with the occasional curse filled the silent and still night. Every inch felt as though he had moved a mile. Every breath he took required the same force as if he was pushing a bus off of his chest.

Nearing the edge of the building he gripped it, forcing himself to look over rim assessing how far of a drop off there was. Krauser knew that he was in no shape to climb, but also knew that if he stayed here death was imminent. Once his vision cleared slightly he assessed the drop to be about twenty feet, maybe, but he knew that it would hurt like hell if he slipped and fell, a luxury he could not afford in his current condition. Krauser braced himself against the ground and began pushing himself up off of it crying out from the effort and the pain it caused. The tears that ran up his right arm increasing from the endeavor, ripping into new unscathed flesh, causing more blood to fall.

Barely managing to make it to his knees Jack glanced at his left arm that up to this point he had tried to ignore. The sight that met his eyes matched the horrible images that had imbedded themselves into his mind. The mangled, scared thing that had once been his left arm hung limply at his side. A thing that Jack could only describe as something out of a horror movie. The arm itself was red and black looking, like a mix between scar tissue, muscle, and something else entirely—the flesh of the creature fused with his body. Severe burns covered his upper arm further adding to the sickening color pallet. Yellow pustules that he didn't even want to think about erupted sporadically over the dilapidated monstrosity. Towards the bottom it branched into what appeared to be a large blade capable of slicing through any enemy with ease. The entire sight was foreign, perhaps alien in nature. What his left arm once was didn't matter, all that was left of it was a combination of the virus and parasite that had consumed it. Transforming it into a weapon, a weapon capable of taking down anything and anyone if used correctly.

Krauser doubled over and held his head as more memories poured forth. There was something about a dominant strain, and then he was injected and...Krauser slumped forward farther his mutated arm pulsating faster, the movement causing fresh bouts of agony to shoot through him.

Trying desperately to clear his head Krauser began to push himself up. Discovering whatever had happened to his arm and to him in general would have to wait until he got the hell out of here. There was only one thing urging Krauser onward, preventing him from lying down and letting despair take him: That damned unyielding, indomitable will to survive that even with his mind in shambles, he knew he'd always stubbornly carried with him. And something else...the fear of dying here alone. For some reason he _knew_ he wasn't supposed to be alone any more.

Once shakily on his feet Krauser looked for a way down through his unsteady vision that wouldn't involve jumping, or more likely, falling off the metal building and onto the combination of more steal and concrete bellow. Stumbling around the rim Jack hopped he would run across some luck see a ladder, hell right now he would take a giant, out of place slide to carry him to safety, or an open bar for that matter. God he could use a drink... Right now he was leaning towards the open bar as a very appealing idea. Regardless of how impractical that was.

Whether his search would have proved fruitful or not didn't even matter. The air that had moments ago lay still picked up. The breeze rocked the metal frame that made up the near by bridge, howled against the steal building, and crashed against the man who had only moments ago found his footing. Krauser desperately tried to steady himself but in his current condition, failed miserably, his back crashed into the rooftop and from there he proceeded to slide farther and farther towards the edge. In a matter of seconds Jack's body, barely holding itself together at this point between past and current abuses, crashed into the concrete ledge beneath him. The twenty foot drop shook Krauser to his very core ripping another blood curdling cry from his scared and burned lips.

Jack couldn't move. He didn't even try to move for close to ten minutes. The entirety of that time was spent with tears pouring down his face washing some of the caked on blood away, eyes screwed tightly shut. That was it. He was done. He didn't care any more. He was just going to lay down and die or let that thing on the end of his shoulder consume him. He was done fighting. He was done-

_“You really are a pathetic waste of my time, Jack.”_

The slightly accented words lit across his mind like wild fire as well as the image of the man speaking them. Tall, completely clad in black darker than the night surrounding him, with a devilish condescending smirk and eyes to match.

 _“Are you really just going to die now? No...no I think not. Not yet anyway. Now stop lying on the ground like a dog. Get_ _**up** _ _Jack!_ _Now!”_

It was so real. He could see it all, hear it like those cruel lips had said it right above him. He'd even smelt his sharp strangely appealing cologne. But it wasn't real. The man wasn't there. Jack was alone in a desolated smoke filled town, and somehow, he wasn't even sure how, he was standing. He had no idea how he had made it back to his feet, or how he was going to stay that way—he felt like his legs would buckle at any minute—but he knew he _had_ to.

Jack clutched at the wall of the building he had just fallen from for support. Looking around him he noticed a door on the other side of a walkway. A door that for all he knew could lead to more problems than he could handle right now. In fact currently he couldn't handle any more complications. Taking in a deep breath and shakily letting it out, he approached the edge of the ledge. Slowly he moved into sitting position before lowering his legs off of it. The knew drop he faced was only five feet, much better than twenty, but still, it was a distance he wasn't sure he could handle right now.

Knowing there was no other way down Krauser allowed himself to slide off of the ledge, legs impacting hard with the ground. The force of his landing caused him to swear and fall forward, landing hard on his knees. Krauser's whole body was shaking at this point, but the voice still echoed in his ears _“Get up Jack...”_

Shakily he pulled himself to his feet only succeeding with the help of the railing that lined the walkway. Jack gripped his left alien appendage to his chest as he slowly crossed the walkway, leaning on the railing the entire time. A trail of blood was left behind him; too much blood. He was shedding more blood than was humanly possible. There was no getting around it, he should be dead. From the blood loss, gashes, third degree burns, or the copious bullet holes that riddled his body, he shouldn't be breathing let alone standing. Yet by some miracle or curse, Krauser was stumbling down the walkway towards the heavy metal door.

Krauser practically fell against the sturdy frame. Now that he was close enough to make out the details of the door he noticed that it was bent out of shape as if something large had rammed into it, and it was now jammed shut. Krauser turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. He tried again and again to make the blasted thing move. Desperation and panic settled in telling him he wouldn't be able to open the door, that he had fought this hard for nothing, that he would die here alone. Jack pounded against the door silently begging God or some other power to give him the strength to open it.

Jack ended up ramming his mutated shoulder repeatedly against the door. Each hit accompanied by a cry of pain and very little progress. On the last hit Krauser threw all of his weight behind it, and through some stroke of luck, the door gave way and crashed open. It swung back and forth, barely hanging from its hinges.

Pipes stuck up out of the ground wrapping their way across the room blocking Jack's line of sight. Railing designed to keep the workers from falling into the lower bowels of the building surrounded the walkway on which Jack was standing. The most remarkable point of the room were the corpses scattered over the ground along side a myriad of empty bullet casings from various types of guns littering the newly revealed room. All in all it was not the sight of hope that Krauser had wished for. The entire room smelt like death, hell he probably smelt like death too. The one thing that did catch his eye was that many of the corpses were still clutching weapons. None of the weapons were too impressive, but they were still something. Stun guns and knives seemed to be the weapon of choice for the massacred. Hopefully they would serve him better.

Jack made his way into the room and over to one of the fallen men. Bending over Krauser picked up two of the discarded weapons: A stun gun and a knife. The knife was badly made, the blade unbalanced, slightly rusted, and the grip felt wrong in his hand, but it was sharp. The stun gun on the other hand Jack knew nothing about, but he took it anyways, sticking it through a loop in his belt. The knife he kept in his hand. Despite the fact he hadn't been able to locate any of the guns that had made the empty shell mess covering the ground, he did feel somewhat better now that he had some means of defense other than the arm that he couldn't even move right now.

Krauser walked deeper into the building, picking his way through the dead that hadn't been blessed with a second chance like him. He was hoping against hope for a way out of here, but mainly he was just trying to find the will to keep moving.

Unlike outside where the stench of the dead had been masked by the breeze, in the stale room there was no escaping it. The air suffocated him with every breath he took with the smell of rot, decay, disease, and death. The fallen felt familiar somehow...at least their uniforms did. Perhaps he knew more about this place and what had happened here than he was aware, but as his mind was still not functioning properly, he couldn't say for sure. He wasn't exactly sure he wanted to know either. So far the flashes he'd gotten were severely disturbing.

Even in death, the rotting solders still fought. Their stiff limbs and discarded nigh septic fluids causing him to stumble and otherwise threatening his already unsteady footing. It was as if they were trying to pull him down to join their feted ranks. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not but he was certain that they were purposefully trying to keep him here. That they wanted to kill him too. It served as motivation to keep him going. He refused to end up like them, he would not rot alone down here.

Through the dim light Krauser made out what looked to be a table covered with documents and other items. From his current position he couldn't make out their nature but, hoping there might be a map or some sort of communication device, Jack made his way over. If there was maybe he could actually make it out of here.

Looking down at the table he was met with a mix of disappointment and relief. Scattered over the wooden surface was a disorganized mess of official looking documents that Jack had no use for. Most of them were blood stained, and some had fallen carelessly to the floor. No maps or radios, but, nestled among the documents were several packages of gauze bandages. Some of the packages were opened and the bits of blood stained, already cut strips told Jack that someone else had also needed a quick patch up job, though probably nothing compared to what he needed. A morgue would be better equipped to deal with his wounds than an ER, let alone a make shift medic station. He wasn't even sure there would be enough to make a dent but maybe they would be enough to stop the worst of the bleeding that was leaving a red trail behind him.

Krauser sat down on the table's surface, thankful it supported his weight. Taking the bandages in his right had he looked down first at his chest. What met his gaze scared him. His torso that had once been riddled with bullet holes, gashes, and burns was somehow...healing. The many holes had shrunk in size, still bleeding but not nearly as bad as before. The gashes there had also began to close, and the smaller ones had sealed completely. There were no words that came to Krauser, no idea of why or how this had happened. Tearing his eyes from his chest he focused his gaze on his pulsating left arm. It too was healing, the mutated flesh still looked horrendous but the cuts themselves had healed. As far as he could tell, his arm had actually healed faster than the rest of him. The question that remained was why? No matter where he looked his wounds were slowly healing, the places close to his left inhuman arm closing up the fastest.

Jack finally shook himself out of his shock, letting his hands drop the bandage roll he'd been about to apply—It looked like he wouldn't be needing it after all. This was important there was no way he could deny that but now was hardly the time and the place to piece together that mystery. He needed to get the hell out of here, before whatever killed these corpses and whatever had done this to him in the first place came back to finish the job.

Krauser hopped gingerly down from the table he was still sitting on. His actions caused one of the loose documents to fall to the floor, the movement catching his eye. It wasn't the words on the page that captured his attention, it was the symbol that it bore. A red and white octagonal shape. It was so...so familiar... _Umbrella._

Suddenly Krauser doubled over holding his head as memories began to pour forth.

... _must_ _retrieve a Master Plaga for the mission to be a success, bring me any other type and I'll....straight back to Spain..._

_...need to gain his trust....use whatever means necessary..._

_...yes, Ada is coming with you....a certain finesse you seem incapable of..._

_….oh, you think that's funny, do you? ...actually rather tiresome...._

_….not to be trusted. She'll serve her own interests before ours..._

_...The Organization is becoming suspicious....time is shorter than I want..._

_...Don't fail me, Jack....and do come back in one piece..._

It was the same blond man, cloaked in shadows. His silky, commanding voice giving Jack brief insights into the reason he was trapped in this hell hole, beat half to death. _Ada_... He remembered red. A red dress and even redder blood; his blood. She was the one who did this to him, somehow he was sure. Maybe if he got out of this...no _when_ he got out of this he'd be sure and return the favor. He very much doubted she had some miracle monster living in her arm that would eject every bullet from her flesh, start her heart again, and then slowly put her mutilated body back together.

First things first. He had to get off this island, which was apparently somewhere in the vicinity of Spain, and then somehow find his way back to the man in the dark sunglasses; find his way back to... _Wesker._ The name hit him like a gunshot and then resonated through his being like a heartbeat. His body's reaction to just remembering the man's name was enough to convince him that this was the right coarse of action and his first priority.

_“You must return with a Master Plaga, otherwise, the mission will be a complete failure...”_

“Master Plaga?” What the hell was that?

Suddenly Jack's arm pulsated painfully and he was taken over by his foggy memories again. He was really beginning to hate this ride...

Jack saw himself standing in some sort of throne room before a man who looked more ancient than the building he was in, dressed in deep purple robes and wielding a staff that looked like it had come out of an fantasy RPG. He remembered the needle filled with the eery purple liquid and the tiny white speck it had contained.

An egg. An egg from the deadly parasites that had turned this peaceful town into something out of a horror film.

_“...To show our appreciation for all your hard work we are happy to bring you into our brotherhood Krauser...as an equal...the Master Plaga we place into your body will...”_

Jack's eyes flew open and he doubled over, physically sick as he recalled the feeling as the mutated creature burst through what had once been his arm, shedding the useless flesh like a bloody coat.

Once Krauser had finished retching up what was left in his stomach—mostly blood—he chanced a glance over at his pulsating extremity. _Well,_ he thought, swallowing hard, _at least I won't fail the mission..._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a semi-short story revolving around Jack Krauser and Albert Wesker during the fallout from Resident Evil 4. Chapters will alternate between Krauser's and Wesker's perspectives.
> 
> The story is being co-written with my sister Mehrune* and loosely follows future plot points from my ongoing Resident Evil FanFiction Project W. I'm writing the chapters told from Wesker's perspective and she the ones written in Krauser's. Our writing styles are fairly similar so the transitions should be pretty smooth.
> 
> Wesker/Krauser is the primary (only) pairing.
> 
> Story rated M for violence, swearing, and sexual content (explicit lemons will be posted here, "clean" versions on my sister's FF account).
> 
> Thank you for reading, we hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Kudos are appreciated and comments always responded to.
> 
> * Story also posted on Mehrune's FF account here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10178142/1/Lone-Wolves


	2. Those Who Defy Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Krauser's dead." 
> 
> Wesker will never forget the moment he heard those words. Words that would have spoke finality to anyone else, but when has Wesker ever submitted to death? So begins the Tyrant's quest to steal his finest soldier back from the reapers cold embrace. 
> 
> People who try and take things from Wesker never fair too well.

 

**Lone Wolves: 02**

**Those Who Defy Death**

**Chapter by Asiera**

_October 22 nd 2002, Wesker's Estate, England:_

The door to his office was thrust open so loudly, Wesker didn't even have to turn around to know it wasn't Sherry. Albeit, her last entrance had been a rather enthusiastic one, in which she'd proudly showed off the Medusa costume—Raccoon City had stolen everything girly, sweet, and pretty from her imagination replacing it with all the monsters that went bump in the night—she planned on wearing next Thursday, even though she knew he had no intention of either taking her “trick or treating” or handing out candy from their estate to children who's ages better suited such activities. Regardless of how noisily she'd barged into his office twenty or so minutes ago, there was no mistaking the practical slam of the heavy wooden door against the wall or the heavy footsteps that followed for the sixteen year old girl he'd been looking after since the horrors of 1998.

Silence proliferated the small but rather grand looking office as Wesker refused to swivel his chair around from where he'd been looking out the window at the stormy sky to face the intruder. In the end it wouldn't make a difference anyway, and Wesker was content to allow this to play out as it would for the time being.

Obviously this hadn't been what the individual had been expecting because he heard him shift his weight uneasily from foot to foot before Wesker's lack of response finally forced him to speak, his deep voice coming out in baritone growl. “You're a hard man to track down, Albert Wesker.”

Ah, someone who knew who he really was, interesting. And judging by the accent, he was American. This revelation could be somewhat troubling depending on who he worked for. As far as Wesker knew, Umbrella was convinced he was dead as well as any other entity that could make any sort of difference; well, aside from the Organization he was currently “working for.” As such, this rather rude interruption posed enough of a conundrum that Wesker was bothered to turn the chair slowly around to face the man standing in his office.

He almost laughed, instead choosing to let a soft smirk pull at the corner of his lips. The individual before him looked as though he'd barely escaped a war with his skin attached...well, most of it anyway. His rather impressive form was covered in purpling bruises and wounds of varying severity and stages of healing. His left arm clung useless at his side, sheltered from the world by some form of makeshift splint. The man's face was a mess, swollen in several places and covered in several nasty cuts that were sure to leave a series of deep scars across his features should Wesker decide to let him live long enough to develop them.

Wesker almost lazily regarded the hand Jack kept firmly on his combat knife and the rather obvious sub machine gun hanging from his hip. They really wouldn't do him much good if conflict was in the near future.

The young man across from him regarded Wesker in a mix of caution and perhaps a bit of annoyance, most likely due to the fact his target had yet refused to acknowledge him aside from turning around.

“You're Albert Wesker, right?” he asked knitting his eyebrows together in a way that must have made his mess of a face sting.

Wesker's smirk deepened. “All the trouble you must have gone to in order to track me down and you still have doubts as to my identity? Interesting.”

The man scowled, the action causing one of the nastier cuts along his lip to open up and leak a few beads of red which were quickly eliminated with a nervous swipe of his tongue. “I guess after everything I've heard about you and all the trouble I went through in order to find you...well, maybe I was expecting a little...more.”

Wesker raised a thin eyebrow, expression unreadable.

“The place wasn't even guarded,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I don't need guards.” The response was simple, as was the threat behind it.

“Is that so?” He blatantly sized up Wesker's smaller, presumably weaponless form relaxed with the same dangerous ease as a giant cat in the large leather chair.

Wesker slowly lowered his hands from when they'd been steepled beneath his chin to rest on the arms of his chair, noting how the other man's hand flexed around the hilt of his knife. “You are welcome to attempt it, but I wouldn't recommend such actions, it doesn't look as though you can stand much more abuse.”

“Heh,” he laughed humorlessly. “You've got no idea how much I can take.”

The only thing that kept Wesker from killing his assailant then and there was his curiosity as to who this individual was working for and out of a desire not to make a bloody mess of his office. Despite the seasonal appropriateness of such a violent redecorating, Wesker had his office exactly the way he wanted it and he liked the present state of the currently stainless carpet.

Faster than the foolish young man could really see, Wesker had launched himself up from his seemingly relaxed position the second he'd unsheathed his knife and vaulted over the smooth surface of his desk, the movement sending papers flying to the floor and bringing him closer than his attacker could prepare for. Before the blade even became a threat, Wesker slammed the palms of his hands into the man's solar plexus, the nigh impossible strength of the blow robbing all the air from his body and probably shattering a few of his already bruised ribs.

The next thing he knew, his footing was swept from underneath him and he was on the floor, Wesker's powerful, lithe body pinning him fast to the carpet. He didn't even have a chance to use his knife before it was twisted so roughly out of his hand that, if Wesker had put even the slightest bit more force behind the action, the supernatural creature above him would have snapped his wrist.

Wesker's quick fingers retrieved the fallen weapon in a flash of silver and pressed it just short of slicing against the sensitive skin of his throat so closely that even breathing was a dance on the razor's edge between living and spraying arterial blood over the office.

“If I were you,” hissed Wesker face inches from his, “I would choose your next words very, _very_ carefully.” He wasn't even panting from the exertion he'd just put his body through in order to incapacitate his assailant.

“I...had to know,” the pinned man whispered carefully, mindful of the sharp steel he'd personally honed to perfection pressed against his neck.

Wesker grinned wickedly and moved back from the man he'd later come to know as his best agent all the while keeping the knife firmly in place. He then slowly removed the sunglasses from his face revealing the smoldering, vertically slit pupils that looked like they'd been stolen from the devil himself. “And now you know.”

The intruder gasped when he saw those unnatural eyes, momentarily forgetting about the blade in his surprise, the result being another injury happily exposing little rivulets of his blood to the world.

He actually thought he heard an annoyed “tch” from the man above him as the drops rolled down his neck and began to soak eagerly into carpet beneath them.

“Anything else?”

An emotionless request for last words.

“My name is Jack Krauser, and I want to work for you, Wesker.”

* * *

 

_Present Day, Organization Safe House, Unknown Location:_

“Krauser's dead.”

Ada's words shot through Wesker like a river of electricity arching through his spine. That...that was impossible. Krauser couldn't be _dead_. Not by some mundane mission to obtain a single parasite smaller than a speck of dust. No...no Krauser was like him, someone to whom death did not hold the same finality as it did to most individuals.

Wesker had known many people in his life who dodged death like it was a poorly aimed bullet; who skirted around it so the reaper's feted breath just brushed their skin. Chris was one of those people. He supposed Jill was too. The pair had a habit of continuing to avoid their, by now, highly justified ends. Ada herself seemed to have a cat-like tendency for taking out new loans on life. But Jack, Jack was different. Jack was like him. They hadn't just evaded their demises. No, they had faced them. They had felt Death's cold hands, been dragged through its vary door. Then, they'd both had the sheer audacity to shake off their reapers, turn around, and walk back into the realm of the living as if death meant nothing to them; a mere nuisance they were happy to live without, thank you very much.

So to claim that Krauser was dead...well, it was just as absurd as Chris believing he could end the existence of the man bearing the title Wesker, the man who had walked back from that dark path unscathed on multiple occasions.

Krauser wasn't dead. Such thoughts were folly. So the new question was, why did Ada want him to believe that Jack was?

Obvious lies dismissed, Wesker allowed an icy calm to settle onto his shoulder, wearing the cool confidence like a well worn cloak. “Really?” was his uncaring response to the woman he'd never really trusted and in whom he was losing more confidence by the second. Ada always played her own games, even when she was working for him—not that he was foolish enough to believe that the spy wasn't capable of having multiple employers simultaneously. Such was her way, and he be a fool to think she was loyal to him. Not like Krauser—the _living_ and _breathing_ individual that he'd sent along to make sure she didn't screw him over too badly. Krauser was the definition of loyal. How could he be anything else? Wesker was like a god to him—a title he rather enjoyed. Wesker had led him back through Death's doorway, had restored his value as a soldier and then had made him into so much more. But most importantly, Wesker had given him a purpose again. A purpose that solely involved serving him. It was a cozy little arrangement, far from the cat and mouse game he was playing with Ms. Wong.

“Hmm...” _How to play this?_ He drummed his gloved fingers against his stereotypically large, black, leather, villain’s arm chair. “Leon doesn't die easily...”

He'd sent Krauser after Leon, the rookie cop who miraculously survived Raccoon city six years ago. The same Leon that Ada had developed a soft spot for during her time in what was now being popularly referred to as “The City of the Dead.” She'd intervened on his behalf multiple times in the past, it wasn't unthinkable that she'd done so again, perhaps even assisted him against Krauser; an encounter she wanted Wesker to believe, perhaps even believed herself, had ended in Krauser's death. Regardless, Kennedy was a weakness, a chink in the Red Butterfly's armor, and since she'd picked at one of his...

“That's fine, we can use him to clean up Saddler for us. We'll let them fight it out. Neither one of them will manage to come out unharmed.” He'd practically purred the last word.

“Easier said than done...”

Judging by the way she looked away from the communication device, preferring to focus on something out of the visual field provided to him proved to Wesker he'd been at least partially right in his assumptions.

Now he was angry. Angry that the presumptuous woman had not only directly defied him, but that she'd done it in so obvious a manner and yet still thought that she could trick him into believing her story. Perhaps she put too much stock in their history. It was true that six years ago she'd been the only person he was able to turn to; that he'd actually _needed_ her to get out of Raccoon City, out of Umbrella, and into the Organization. It could even be said that she'd helped to save his life. But that was over half a decade ago and it was a debt he'd long ago repaid in full. Now she was nothing more than a means to an end. A means he was growing quite tired of.

His voice suddenly developed a harsh edge; one that if she still had any common sense left to her should make her very, very wary of what her next move would be. “By the way it's your job to clean up what's left of them when the fight is over. Don't forget who is running the show. No matter what happens we can't let either of them live to see tomorrow. Our goal is to retrieve the sample. Take out anything that might interfere with our plans.”

He abruptly ended the transmission. Let the disobedient little minx think on that for a bit. This was her finial opportunity to redeem herself in his eyes. He was almost assured what her choice would be—the wrong one—but, for old time's sake he'd give her the chance. Besides, right now he had other, vastly more important things to worry about, like what had become of his favorite little soldier.

Using the controls located conveniently on the arm of probably the most expensive chair he'd ever purchased, Wesker flicked aside the holographic window of Ada's now blank communication link and, with a few scrolls and taps of his gloved fingers, he brought up another virtual screen to the center of the room.

The holo-screen was quite a marvelous creation. The projected images it displayed hung mid air before him in the dark room, displayed in crystal clarity. Not only was arguably in much better taste than the computers of the everyday man, it strangely caused him significantly less headaches than the conventional methods of visual display devices. Albert didn't wear the dark lenses just for show, or for the anonymity they provided—though he wasn't complaining about either. Whatever the combination of Project W and the potent virus running through his veins had done to him, one of the results had been the glowing devil eyes that were extremely sensitive to light and left him prone to all manner of headaches.

Migraines were the least of his concerns at the moment, even though the results of this fiasco would no doubt end in a very nasty one. Right now he needed proof, incontrovertible proof that the woman in red had been lying; that Jack was still breathing. Proof that was only a simple button press away.

Long ago, once Jack had proven himself an invaluable asset to Wesker's cause, a fascinating experiment, and even more importantly, one of the handful of people in this world Wesker actually gave a damn about, Wesker had injected a tracking device beneath the skin of his neck.

* * *

 

 _February 16_ _th_ _2003, Wesker's Estate, England:_

“So what am I, your favorite dog now?” Jack grumbled begrudgingly sitting down on the metal examination table and eying the huge metal syringe in Wesker's hand warily.

Wesker chuckled, “I was going to say, 'valuable investment I'd prefer not to misplace,' but your description is much more...appealing.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, though he hadn't missed the teasing in Wesker's voice...or the way he was advancing with that damned gigantic needle.

“Yeah, and what if I don't want to be your 'dog?'” he huffed, shying away from his grinning tormentor.

“Well then,” Wesker laughed wickedly, “Then I suppose you'd find yourself a stray once more.” His voice turned more harsh. “And may I remind you that strays don't last very long in your line of work.” He began advancing menacingly with each insulting word. “They're dirty, flee-bitten, rabid, wild animals. It took a lot of work—or should I say _grooming_ —to get you to where you are today and I'm not about to write that all off as a waste of my bloody time,” Wesker finished, coming to stand directly before his current, shirtless experiment.

Jack let out an indignant “humph” to concede his defeat in the matter.

Wesker sighed and, none to gently, stopped Jack's inch by inch retreat across the metal surface beneath him with a firm, medically gloved hand on his shoulder.

“As amusing as this conversation is, I think it's high time we move on.” Wesker shook his head, lining up the needle with Jack's neck. “Honestly Jack, I did the exact same thing to Sherry years ago and _she_ barely flinched.”

Jack stopped both his verbal and physical complaining after that.

* * *

 

_Present Day, Organization Safe House, Unknown Location:_

Wesker felt relief trickle through his tainted veins when Jack's tracker—moving tracker—came up on the screen. Then that relief turned to bitter poison. Something was very wrong.

It was clear that Jack was alive, but that's not all the tracker was telling him. It did far more than just relay the movements of its host. It also displayed Jack's heart rate—significantly elevated but that wasn't outlandish considering what the mission might be forcing him to do. More importantly, it gave him a clear picture of Jack's viral load. The Veronica Virus was completely unstable within him, the levels fluctuating before him eyes, trending upwards at a dangerous rate. This was even more disturbing because never in the past—aside from a few purposeful alterations—had Jack's infection level ever varied.

A remarkable feat. There were few people on this earth that could boast a natural immunity to one of Umbrella's viruses. Add in having a symbiotic relation to the virus and being able to bend the affliction to their will, and only around four came to mind. He was one of them—and by default that included his twin, Alex Wesker—Sherry was another, and Jack the fourth: the miraculous individual born with immunity to Alexia's nasty little creation, T-Veronica.

Neither he nor Jack had even known that the injury he'd received in South America from the B.O.W. previously known as Javier—the same injury that had taken away the usefulness of his left arm and his purpose as a mercenary all in one fell swoop—had caused him to become infected with T-Veronica and given him a whole new lease on life. The results of the blood tests Wesker had run a few weeks after Jack had joined him had certainly been a surprise to the both of them.

Now things were different. Jack's T-Veronica levels had skyrocketed from where they usually sat. Wesker couldn't imagine that such an increase hadn't caused some sort of mutation, his body couldn't keep the virus under control when it was replicating so quickly. As far as he knew, Jack might not even be remotely human anymore. He'd seen it happen so many times before...

Wesker closed his eyes and massaged him pounding temples. This was not acceptable. He could not lose Jack. Not after...after everything...

Wesker wanted so very badly to enlarge the communication window and make contact with Krauser, to ensure that he was still alright—if Jack was even capable of still doing so that is—but he couldn't even attempt to.

Saddler was an exceedingly paranoid individual—what madman bent on thoughts of world domination wasn't? After Wesker had helped Krauser arrange Ashley Graham's kidnapping, he'd had to cut all contact to ensure that Jack could gain the cult leader's trust and settled for using Ada as his means of contact into that remote corner of the world.

But just because he couldn't talk to him didn't mean he couldn't see him.

Wesker had gained many things since the Umbrella Corporation had begun to fold, including a fair few of the toys they no longer had any use for. Like the satellite he was using to zoom in on Jack's location. Just a few more minor adjustments and...

Wesker's breath froze in his lungs. It was as he'd feared. Jack wasn't even close to alright and a far cry from what most would have considered human. The virus had begun to mutate his body, transforming his left arm into something out of the nightmares Wesker refused to admit he had. Nightmares of horrific bloodthirsty monsters, twisting mansions, and hideous disfigured faces pressed up against the test tube glass. Or even worse, the nights when it was him looking out of the test tube, past his own mutated reflection, at the merciless scientists in their white lab coats.

Wesker stood. He needed to act now. If Jack wasn't helped, if the virus within him was not halted in its rapid take over of his twisting body, Wesker would lose him. That was something he wouldn't—couldn't do. There was still time.

As Wesker stalked out of the room, he didn't even bother to close the image of the monster as it launched itself effortlessly from rooftop to roof top, entire virus ridden form throwing itself towards some goal Wesker couldn't even begin to fathom.

In Wesker's haste to do something, _anything_ to stop reality's relentless chain of events, he practically ran over the petite young blonde as they rounded the same corner. The sudden collision caused her to slam up against his chest and drop her arm full of documents inked with complex chemical equations and experimental data that would have made some of the world's top scientists scratch their heads in confusion but was just typical “helping-out-Wesker-work” to Sherry Birkin.

“Ouch...” she muttered, briefly lamenting whatever minor injury she'd just sustained. “Sorry, Al, I...” she stopped when her bright blue gaze fell on his face and shielded unnatural eyes, somehow reading past all the walls and the dark lenses that kept all but a very select few out.

“What's wrong? Did something happen in Europe?” Her voice was suddenly miles away from what would be expected of your typical eighteen year old girl in the areas of strength and comprehension. Then again, Sherry was far from your typical teenager, Raccoon City and subsequently living with and being raised by Wesker had assured that.

Wesker hated how she could understand him so easily, like she didn't even have to try. For while there was the rare occasion when the girl's nigh unrivaled ability to read past his carefully constructed masks was a welcome relief, most the time he just viewed these lapses as a weakness on his part and right now was no exception.

Though, in his pride's defense, she had known him since she was born and he'd basically become the little orphaned girl's (highly dysfunctional) father figure since the G-Virus had devoured everything she'd ever know. Sherry had known him as the man he'd used to be, before the powerful virus he now harbored had transformed him into Umbrella's deadliest creation to date. And what was more, Sherry was like him. She too had become irrevocably bonded to a virus that probably excluded her from being part of “Club Humanity.”

If anyone could see through his walls it was Sherry, and Sherry knew that something was terribly wrong. She could see it in his tightly drawn lips, the way his left eyebrow almost imperceptibly twitched from time to time, how his back was stiffer that usual, and in the tight clench of his fists. Usually she didn't get so many signs, so this must be really, _really_ bad.

Wesker considered lying to her, thought about trying to blow it off as inconsequential; a problem with an experiment—he mentally winced at the thought—but he knew she wouldn't buy it. He didn't have the time to waste anyway. That and she'd probably kill him later if he didn't tell her what was currently happening to Jack. Ever since the ex-mercenary had joined their strange little family of B.O.W.s Sherry had taken quite a shine to the gruff individual.

“It's Krauser.” His words were ice but Sherry heard the fear and worry hidden under the smooth accent. “T-Veronica is completely out of control. He's mutating.”

Sherry's face remained stoic, a trait she'd picked up from him over the years, but he could see the same panic he was hiding reflected in her eyes.

“I'm going to Europe to retrieve him,” Wesker finished, intending on pushing past her and leaving their Spartan conversation at that.

He should have know that he wasn't going to get rid of her that easily. She had the same stubborn tenacity her father had displayed when trying to unravel the secrets of some deadly pathogen he had pinned beneath the exposing stare of his electron-microscope. “I'm going with you,” she stated firmly, grabbing his arm and using the same tone Wesker took on when he was making it clear that he would entertain no arguments.

“No,” he ordered just as sternly back, pulling his arm free and moving quickly down the hall.

“Al, come on! You could use my help!” She glared when his only response was to continue stalking away. “He's important to me too you know!”

Wesker shouldn't have paused but he did.

Sherry of course took this as an incentive to continue her argument. “What's the point of training me for all this stuff, of having Jack train me, if I'm never going to use it! I'm more than ready for the field and you know it!”

Wesker sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, she had a good point, several in fact. And he really could use her assistance. He'd never say it out loud, but facing this catastrophe alone might not be his most brilliant idea. He growled angrily as he gestured roughly for Sherry to follow. This is why he hated getting close to people. It just screwed everything up.

Sherry quickly bounded along behind him, thankful and somewhat surprised that he'd caved so easily.

“You will do exactly as I say, with no questions or arguments. If you make a nuisance of yourself and slow me down you could very well ruin our only chance of retrieving Krauser alive. Do not make me regret this Sherry Birkin.”

She nodded grimly. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Good, he was regretting entirely too much at this moment already.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, second chapter is finally up (sorry for the wait). I hope you enjoyed the first chapter written from Wesker's perspective. Oh and some more good news? My sister already finished the next chapter! We just have some editing to do, so that means next post in a few days. Hope that made somebody grin.
> 
> Just something to note, I suppose if we're getting "technical" and going by chronological order, this chapter should have come first since it obviously takes place before Ada and Krauser's epic battle (which, by the way, still rates as one of the hardest Resident Evil battles I've ever had to do) and my sister's first chapter takes place during the aftermath. However, seeing as Jack is the star of this little number we decided to go with the current posting arrangement.
> 
> Something else that's important to realize is that we're writing this story as if it takes place in the same Resident Evil world as my other Resident Evil fic, Project W. Hence the mentioning of Albert's twin, Alex Wesker and a few other minor details. You won't be missing out on anything too important if you're not also reading Project W though, so no worries (although I'm never opposed to more readers. ...Okay, yeah Sis, I'll stop with the shameless plugs...sorry.)
> 
> Anyway, I'm kinda behind so I best get started on chapter 4. Thanks for reading. Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated!
> 
> -Asiera & Mehrune


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